The Last Victim_ A True-Life Journey Into the Mind of the Serial Killer - Jason Moss [91]
“You know, you’re awfully lucky to have this time with me,” he reminded again. “There are thousands of people who’d like to be in your place right now.”
“I realize that,” I said, playing the adoring fan. “I really appreciate all you’ve done for me.” Only a few more minutes and I’d be done with all this groveling.
“Then why are you playing games with me?” he asked. “I have a fine cock. You’ve seen it. You’ve seen its mushroom head. You’ve got to agree it’s beautiful.”
Since he was looking at me for affirmation, I had no choice but to nod my head.
“Do you know how many guys would love me to shove it up their ass? It’s the perfect size.”
I was comforted by his relaxed manner. It was as if we were talking sports or something. I don’t know if he was feeling sorry for me, or was just more circumspect because there were now more people in the area, but he remained reasonably appropriate throughout the rest of our time together. I suppose he was counting on the next day to follow through on his plan. There was no way I was going to tell him there’d be no next day. In fact, at this point I was thinking his scheduled execution couldn’t come too soon.
As the time arrived to say goodbye, he morphed into his charming, personable self, as much for the benefit of Ken and the guards as for me. He seemed convinced that I lacked the power to break away from him. Just to make sure, though, he bestowed on me a few more gifts—another of his paintings, a signed photo of himself for my brother, and a signed copy of his manuscript, A Question of Doubt, that was in limited circulation.
“Okay, guys, have a good one,” Gacy said as Ken and I walked through the gate.
“See you, John,” Ken and I both said in unison. I was so relieved to be leaving Gacy’s clutches, I felt giddy. My escape with body—if not full dignity—intact seemed too good to be true. As I was being led out of the prison, I felt for a moment that something was going to happen to me. Perhaps I’d be taken hostage, or Gacy would suddenly decide to attack me from behind with a pen and jab it in my neck. Happily, my premonitions proved false.
I asked Ken to take me back to the motel so I could start packing as soon as possible. Going home was all I could think about.
Later that night, Gacy called to check up on me and that’s when I broke the news that I wasn’t coming back.
“My dad’s in a bad mood,” I told him. “I gotta go home. I don’t have a choice or he’ll beat the shit out of me.”
“What do you mean, your father wants you home! Doesn’t he know you’re supposed to be with me?”
“I know,” I said. “He’s being ridiculous. But he wants me to come home.”
Silence on the other end of the line. I wondered if Gacy had hung up.
“Well,” he finally said in frustration, “do you want me to call him to convince him to let you stay?”
Yeah, right, I thought. “No, that’ll only make him more upset.”
“I can’t believe this! I spent all this money to fly you out here—”
I reminded him that it wasn’t my fault, that I had no choice in the matter. I was surprised how easily he accepted my explanation. I wondered if he sensed when I left that day that I wouldn’t be coming back.
We made plans for a return visit during my summer break. Fat chance of that. Gacy was scheduled to die in a few weeks.
41
Going Home
Okay. I’d made a big mistake. I see that fully now. I began realizing it as I was flying home, trying to fit together the pieces of what had happened to me the previous two days.
It was a midnight flight. I took a window seat so I could stare into the darkness and avoid my fellow passengers. I didn’t think I could muster any small talk right now. Besides, I needed to think. In the back of my mind, I wondered whether I knew, the day I set out for Menard, what was going to happen. Had it been a deluded belief in my ability to “handle” people that caused me to ignore the danger